Silent Gods

The temple of the red desert was wrapped in a silence that did not belong to this world. The sandstone columns rose toward the ceiling like trees of a forgotten forest, and the moonlight filtered through the cracks in the rock, casting shadows that danced on the walls like imprisoned spirits.

Ksenia sat on the altar of red stone, her legs tucked beneath her, her hands clasped in her lap like a prayer that had not yet found words. Her eyes were fixed on the temple door, on that stone entrance that looked like an open mouth ready to swallow the world.

She waited.

She had been waiting for hours. Perhaps days. Time no longer had any meaning for her. Time was only an illusion, a toy humans used to give themselves a sense of control. But she had no control. She never had.

Her body was still marked by the battle. The daggers that had pierced her had been removed, but the wounds were still fresh, still painful. Beneath the silk veils, the bandages were stained with blood, and every movement was a reminder of what she had done — of the sacrifice she had made to protect Cassandra.

Cassandra.

The name was a wound on her tongue. A wound that would never heal.

Her hands trembled. Her fingers tightened around the ring Cassandra had given her — the ring Nasrin had returned to her. She pressed it to her chest, close to her heart, as if she could feel its warmth, as if she could feel Cassandra through that small gem.

— I told you to leave — she murmured. — I told you to go home. But you didn't listen. You never listen.

Silent tears, warm, carving paths down her face like rivers of pain.

Her fist clenched around the ring. The gem pressed against her skin, leaving a red mark.

— I'm afraid, Cass — she whispered. — I'm afraid Freyja will find you.

She stopped. Her breath broke in a sob.

— I'm afraid of losing you.

The wind rose, carrying sand and silence. The columns of the temple seemed to tremble, as if the desert itself were listening to her words.

Her fingers tightened around the ring with a force that seemed to want to melt it into her skin.

— And I'm afraid that if you still love me... I may not be worthy of you.

Silence fell like a cloak. Ksenia remained still, her eyes fixed on the door, her heart beating too fast in her chest.

— Shahrivar — she whispered. — Come back soon. Bring me news. Tell me she is well. Tell me she lives. Tell me she will return.

The wind carried her words away, scattering them across the desert like seeds of hope.

But Shahrivar did not return.

Nasrin paced back and forth before the altar, her bare feet silent on the stone. Her eyes were fixed on Ksenia, and her face was marked by a concern she could not hide.

— Shahrivar is gone — she said. Her voice was low, but there was a tremor in her words she had never shown before. — She went to check on Cassandra's transport to the hospital, but she hasn't returned. Hours have passed. Too many hours.

Ksenia looked up. Her eyes were red, swollen with tears and exhaustion.

— Perhaps she is just delayed — she said. Her voice was a whisper, a breath, a shadow of words. — Perhaps she encountered an obstacle. Perhaps...

— I don't believe that — Nasrin interrupted. — I feel it. In the air. In the wind. Something has changed in the desert. The air is heavier, denser, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

She stopped. Her eyes narrowed.

— I must go and check.

She turned toward the temple door. Her bare feet moved silently on the stone.

— Nasrin — Ksenia called.

Nasrin stopped. She turned.

— Be careful — Ksenia said.

Nasrin smiled. It was a tired smile, the smile of one who had seen too much and had learned to hope no more.

— I will not die — she said. — Not today. Not by Freyja's hand.

And she left.

---

Nasrin walked toward the city gates with her heart beating too fast. She had left the temple hours earlier, driven by a premonition she could not shake. Shahrivar had

disappeared. Something was wrong. Something had changed in the desert. The air was heavier, denser, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

She stopped.

Before her, outside the walls, a crowd had gathered. Dozens of people, perhaps hundreds, all with their eyes fixed on something Nasrin could not see. Their faces were pale,

their eyes wide, and their bodies trembled like leaves in the wind.

— Why are they there? — Nasrin whispered. — What are they looking at?

She approached stealthily, her bare feet silent on the sand. Her body moved like a shadow, like a breath of wind, like something that did not belong to this world. She hid behind

a stone wall, her eyes scanning the scene before her.

And then she saw it.

Shahrivar's body was hung on the city walls like a trophy, like a warning, like a signature. Her ribs were open, the broken bones spreading like an opening inward. Her lungs, still

attached to her body, were spread across her back like two wings of blood gleaming in the dawn light.

The blood eagle.

Nasrin felt the blood freeze in her veins. Her hands began to tremble. Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the world around her disappeared.

— No — she whispered. — No, not her. Not Shahrivar.

She approached further, her body moving like a shadow among shadows. The crowd was too focused on the body to notice her. Their eyes were fixed on those wings of blood,

on those open ribs, on those lungs that still seemed to pulse.

And then Nasrin saw the feathers.

Two falcon feathers were thrust into Shahrivar's eyeballs, feathers gleaming in the sunlight like blades of metal. They were black, glossy, as if planted there by a hand that

belonged to no god.

Nasrin recognized that sign. She recognized that gesture. She recognized that signature.

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— Freyja — she whispered. — She has arrived.

The name was poison on her tongue. A poison that burned, that destroyed, that killed.

She turned. Her bare feet moved silently on the sand. Her body moved like the wind, like the storm, like death itself running toward the temple.

— I must warn Ksenia — she murmured. — I must tell her that Freyja has arrived. That she has killed Shahrivar. That she is coming.

She ran.

She ran toward the temple of the red desert.

She ran toward Rubrum Dasht.

The desert stretched before her like a sea of shadows and silence. But she was not afraid. She was afraid of nothing. She had only one mission: to warn Ksenia before it was too late.

---

Time passed. Minutes. Hours. An eternity.

Then she heard footsteps.

They were not Nasrin's light, silent steps. They were heavy, irregular, labored steps. Steps of someone running, fleeing, carrying news they did not want to bring.

Nasrin appeared on the threshold. Her face was pale, her eyes wide, and her body trembled like a leaf in the wind.

— Nasrin — Ksenia said, rising. — What happened? What did you see?

Nasrin did not answer. She approached Ksenia, her eyes full of a light Ksenia had never seen before. It was the light of pain. It was the light of terror.

— Shahrivar — she said. Her voice was a whisper, a breath, a shadow of words. — She has been killed.

Ksenia felt the world collapse around her.

— What? — she whispered. — No. It's not true.

— I saw her — Nasrin said. — Her body was hung on the city walls. Her ribs were open. Her lungs were spread across her back like wings of blood. And her feathers... her

feathers were thrust into her eyes.

Ksenia felt the blood freeze in her veins.

— Freyja — she whispered. — Freyja has arrived.

— Yes — Nasrin said. — She has arrived. And she is coming for you.

Ksenia closed her eyes. Her body trembled. Her hands were clenched fists.

— Cassandra — she murmured. — Cassandra is in danger.

---

The hospital room was white and silent as a tomb. The walls were painted a white that seemed to absorb light, and the sun filtered through the windows like a veil of golden dust.

Cassandra's bed was at the center, her white sheets stained with blood, her body still marked by blows, wounds, pain.

Cassandra was awake.

She had not slept for hours. She could not sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Ksenia's body collapsing on the stone floor. She saw the daggers protruding from

her back like wings of blood. She saw the blood spreading around her like a halo of pain.

— Ksenia — she whispered. — Ksenia...

The name was a prayer on her lips. A prayer she did not know if would be heard.

Beside her, Cross sat on a plastic chair. His eye was still swollen, his eyebrow still bandaged. But his eyes were open, vigilant, ready for anything.

— You should rest, Director — he said. His voice was low, calm. — You need strength.

— I cannot rest — Cassandra replied. — Not until Ksenia...

She did not finish the sentence.

The television was on in the corner of the room. It had been left there to keep patients company, to distract them from their pain. But that day, the television brought no comfort.

It brought only death.

The news appeared suddenly. A live broadcast, a journalist speaking before the walls of Shiraz. His face was pale, his voice trembled, and his words were broken by horror.

— We are witnessing a scene we never imagined we would see — the journalist said. — Outside the walls of Shiraz, the body of a woman has been found hung on the walls.

The woman was subjected to a torture that recalled... recalled the ancient Norse custom of the blood eagle.

The camera shifted. It showed Shahrivar's body.

Her open ribs. Her lungs spread across her back like wings of blood. The falcon feathers thrust into her eyeballs.

Cassandra felt the world collapse around her.

Her heart stopped beating. Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened, and for a moment, time stopped.

— No — she whispered. — No. Not...

The camera zoomed in. It showed Shahrivar's face. Her eyes were still open, fixed on the sky, as if she had seen something no mortal should have seen.

And then the camera showed the falcon feathers.

Cassandra recognized them. She had seen them before, in the massacred villages, in Ksenia's dreams, in her own fear.

— Freyja — she whispered. — Freyja is here.

The name was a knife piercing her chest.

Cross stood up. His eyes were fixed on the television, and his hand was on Cassandra's shoulder.

— Director... — he began.

— Freyja is here — Cassandra repeated. Her voice was a whisper, a breath, a shadow of words. — Freyja has killed Shahrivar. Freyja has arrived. And Ksenia... Ksenia is alone.

Cross looked at her. His eyes were full of a concern he could not hide.

— We can do nothing — he said. — You are wounded. You cannot walk. You cannot fight.

— I don't care — Cassandra said. Her voice was firm now, firmer than it had been in days. — I don't care if I am wounded. I don't care if I cannot walk. I don't care if I cannot

fight. I must reach Ksenia. I must protect her. I must...

She stopped.

The tears began to fall.

Her leg was bleeding, her body was a mosaic of bruises and pain, and her soul was a desert vaster than the one she had crossed.

Then she felt a hand on her forehead.

It was a warm, reassuring hand, like a coat on cold winter nights. A hand that seemed to absorb all the pain, all the fear, all the despair filling her chest. A hand that calmed her

anger like a river calming after a storm.

Cassandra looked up.

Before her, a woman. A woman she knew.

Her eyes were the color of the sky after rain, a blue so pure it seemed to look beyond the world. Her skin was pale as the moon, and her hands — her hands were the hands of a healer, long, slender, capable of healing and soothing.

Eir.

The goddess of healing.

— Calm yourself, daughter of the earth — Eir said. Her voice was a whisper, a breath, a caress descending on the skin like a light breeze. — Calm yourself.

Cassandra looked at her. The tears still flowed on her face, but the pain was beginning to ease.

— Ksenia — she whispered. — Ksenia needs me. Freyja is here.

Eir shook her head. Her smile was sweet, sad, like the smile of a mother watching her child suffer.

— Fate has other plans for her — Eir replied. — And you are the key to that fate. The prophecy is not yet fulfilled. Because Zarina wrote it, the border cannot be crossed until

the right moment.

Cassandra looked at her. Her eyes were full of tears, but there was something in them that had not been there before. It was a glimmer of hope.

— What is the border? — she asked.

Eir leaned over her. Her hand was still on her forehead, warm and reassuring.

— You are the border — she said.

Eir's hand grew heavier. The warmth spread across Cassandra's forehead like a wave of light.

— Sleep — Eir whispered. — Sleep, daughter of the earth. When you wake, you will be stronger.

Her hand tightened slightly.

And Cassandra felt the world fading.

Cassandra's head tilted back. Her eyes closed. Her body relaxed, as if a switch had been flipped, as if all the tension, all the pain, all the fear had been shut off in an instant.

Eir watched over her.

— Sleep — she whispered again. — Sleep, daughter of the earth.

Cross stood up. His eyes were fixed on Eir, and his hand was on his gun.

— I came to help Cassandra.

— Why? — Cross asked. — Why would you help her?

Eir looked at him. Her eyes were full of a sadness that seemed as ancient as time itself.

— The goddess Freyja has lost control — she said. — Asgard is in turmoil. The Valkyries will soon arrive, along with the hybrid goddess of the abyss. The battle will be a

bloodbath, and Cassandra must be protected so that Ksenia's destiny may be fulfilled.

---

While Freyja walked toward Shiraz and Cassandra slept in the hospital room, in the realm of Asgard, Thor stood on the edge of the precipice, his eyes fixed on the darkness

moving before him like a sleeping animal beginning to wake. His hammer, Mjolnir, was clutched in his hands, and his muscles were taut as bowstrings.

— Njord — he whispered. — Njord is moving toward the red desert. His passage is an omen of death for all that is life. The water he carries is water that does not give life. It is

water that brings death.

Where Njord walked, water began to flow. But it was not water that gave life. It was water that brought death. Water that seeped into the sand, that penetrated the earth, that

poisoned everything it touched.

Plants withered. Animals died. Men fled.

The primordial void pushed him forward. The darkness that had birthed him called to him. And he, the god of the sea, was its messenger. Its omen. Its fury.

---

While destinies intertwined on the loom of the Norns in a mosaic of death, Askel sat at the counter, a pint of beer in his hand, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid gleaming in the

dim lamplight. His body was marked by a thousand battles he had never fought.

He was a Viking without destiny. A warrior without war. A man who had surrendered to life.

Beside him, Piper sat on a stool.

— Drink — Piper said, raising her pint. — Drink and forget.

Askel looked at her. His eyes were empty, without light, without hope.

— Forget what? — he asked. — My destiny? My heritage? The fact that I am a Viking without a ship, without a death worthy of being told?

— Yes — Piper said. — All of it.

Askel laughed. A dry, bitter laugh that was lost in the bar's smoke.

Askel raised his pint.

— I drink — he said. — I drink to the destiny that awaits me. I drink to the war I must fight. I drink to the woman I must save.

His hand rested on Piper's backside.

And he drank.

To the last drop.

Then he rose from the counter.

— Let's go — he said. — Let's go fight.

Piper smiled. It was a smile he had never seen before.

— Finally, I couldn't wait — she said.

Askel looked at her. His eyes were full of a light that had not been there before.

— Where would you like to go, my queen? — he said.

— Let's go to the lecture hall — Piper said. — It is empty and silent now. There is always the little window open. I want to try that position on the desk...

Her tongue moistened her lips with desire. A slow, almost imperceptible gesture, but charged with a promise that needed no words.

Askel felt the blood burning in his veins.

— On the desk? — he repeated. His voice was a whisper, a breath, a shadow of words. — The professor's desk?

— Yes — Piper said. — That desk. That position. I want to feel the cold wood against my back while you... while you make me forget everything.

Askel felt his body respond. He felt desire rising like a flooded river. He felt the urge to forget everything — destiny, war, Ragnarok, Thor, Njord, the primordial void.

Only the desk mattered. The little open window. The cold wood against Piper's back. Askel's hands exploring her body. Their lips seeking each other. Their breaths mingling.

Askel could already see the scene before his eyes and could not wait to reach the university.

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